


My Fingers Laced to Crown

by awritersdaydream



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Control, F/M, Fingering, Power Play, Word Play, relationship, slight Daddy!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awritersdaydream/pseuds/awritersdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has Abigail sitting in his office twice a week, without saying a word. She has no idea why she is here, or what he wants. So she waits, and waits and waits until one day, she cannot wait anymore. Spoilers up until 1x09. Pre-Relevés.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fingers Laced to Crown

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time writing Hannibal/Abigail. At first it was going to be just a simple sexy piece and then it turned into control and a little bit of control and power-play with some Daddy!Kink mixed in and then before I knew it the entire thing had changed. So, I hope this worked out! Enjoy :)

He starts requesting to see her two times a week.

She doesn’t find it unusual, considering the new information he gained about her involvement in the murders. She assumes he is checking up on her, giving her some time out of that stuffy, cramped room like he did before. He is allowing her some freedom from the endless cycle of thoughts in her mind. She doesn’t want to remember the train rides, the cabin, or the actual killings. She tries hard to forget the conversations she had with the girls she led to slaughter.

But she remembers too much.

She remembers bumping elbows with one of them while shopping, and laughing about a boy who whistled at them at the mall. She remembers thinking they could be friends. And that maybe things could be normal this time, just this one time.

She remembers being so very wrong.

So when Dr. Lecter, _Hannibal_ ( _she has to remember to call him Hannibal, he said, now that there are no secrets between them_ ), demands to see her a couple times a week she doesn’t hesitate. On the contrary, she grows excited.

Because she also remembers the first time she saw his house, where he cooked for her and gave her the bitter tea that allowed the illusion of her family to come back. She is anxious for him to cook for her again, and for him to ask questions that nobody else will.

But every time she arrives, and sits down on that long, flat, indigo chair that countless former patients have sat on before her, he just continues the work at his desk, saying nothing.

The first few times she accepts it. _He is just busy_ , she thinks. She rationalizes his odd behavior. She has always rationalized odd behavior, ever since she was young ( _it isn’t hard to do when your father is a serial killer_ ).

But the more times she sits in his office, silence filling the room instead of casual conversation, the more her curiosity grows.

She’s tried talking to him, but he scolds her by saying it is rude to talk to someone while they are working. She’s tapped her finger on the cushion, but he stops her just by uttering her name. She’s sighed and yawned and leaned back in the chair, but is met with a disapproving look and a demand to not fall asleep. She has tried everything she possibly can to get his attention, or at least to gather a reaction.

But nothing works.

As a result, she has taken to roaming the office.

She starts with the downstairs. She walks along the edges, staring at the expensive, dark frames lining the pictures on his wall. They are old photographs of flowers and buildings, all in black in white and never in color. She turns the corner and lands on a special frame, dark in pigment but smooth to the touch. She smiles, despite herself. It is his medical license, the glass covering the sensitive paper spotless. She continues walking, her hand fluttering over objects she passes. He hasn’t said anything to her yet, which means this kind of action must be acceptable. Her hand rests on a stag statue, the antlers tall and rigged. There is something about it that strikes her; there is a kind of magnetic pull.

Her tour of the downstairs is eventually over, and she glances back at Hannibal. He is still sitting at his desk, his posture perfect, writing furiously on a piece of paper. _He always looks so busy_ , she thinks, and it makes her feel that much smaller in his presence.

Frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement, she climbs up the ladder to the second floor library.

“Careful, Abigail,” he warns, but she is suddenly so angry that she ignores him.

She climbs the ladder quickly, and when she arrives at the top she is almost out of breath. She is so tired of only seeing this side of Hannibal. He is always in control, always aware of the situation and always confident in how to react to it.

Just once she would like to see him behave without personal restraint.

She stares at the multitude of books lining the shelves and begins to count the rows.

_One, two, three, four…_

It is so quiet she can actually _feel_ the silence surrounding the room. She feels suffocated, lonely, and confused. She needs to _breathe_. The air is too thick and she feels utterly alone in this large, symmetrical office. It’s as if he isn’t even there. Her throat begins to close up, and her irritation and anger starts to bubble over. She stops, and turns for the ladder. She races down the parallel furniture until her feet hit the bottom, hard. She walks as quickly as she can, the cramped air already feeling like a dream behind her. Abigail picks up her pace and lays a hand on the doorknob— _home free_ —until she hears a voice.

“Stay.” She hears Hannibal say behind her.

If anything, the word bothers her the most. He doesn’t say ‘ _Where are you going, Abigail?_ ’ or ‘ _Are you okay, Abigail?_ ’ but ‘s _tay_ ’. He doesn’t even say her name. His tone though, causes her confusion. It is soft and comforting, the word tumbling off his lips like a request instead of a demand.

Abigail turns around slowly, her hand gradually sliding off the gold knob. Although she appears composed, on the inside she is shaking.

“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Why do you want me here if all you are going to do is sit at your desk and ignore me?”

“Does it bother you that we are not talking?”

“Yes,” she says, exasperatedly. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

He sets his pen down calmly and folds his hands on top of his desk. He stares at her, his eyes analyzing her every feature, and suddenly, she isn’t sure she wants to talk anymore.

He stares at her, his expression calm. “Why do you think I want you here?”

“Because I messed up,” she stammers, all the silence in the past few weeks finally telling her what she needs to know. “Because I have to regain your trust.”

“Clever girl,” he says and she watches as he gets up from his chair and straightens his suit. She thinks he is going to walk over to her, but he passes by instead and sits down on the indigo chair she has come to hate. He pats the seat next to him and she obediently replaces his hand on the cushion with her body. “You are correct.”

She stares up at him, her expression unsure.

“You need to learn self-control, Abigail,” he tells her and she finally feels as if she can relax. Now that she knows the lesson, she can begin to improve. “I thought this would work, but you’ve proved to be difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. All she ever thinks about is his acceptance and pride in her. She’s never felt this way, not even with her own father. There is something about Hannibal that lights her skin on fire and possesses her mind. Half of the time she can’t stand to be near him, for fear of being a disappointment, but the other half can’t stand to be away. This is why she is difficult; the thought of him wanting nothing to do with her is crippling.

“It seems I will have to take another approach,” he says, and she is melting before his eyes. Her pupils are large, her eyes wide and attentive.

“Yes, yes please.” The desperation in her voice is clear, and she squirms in her seat. She has gone from defiant to compliant in an instant, and she knows it is because of him and the effect he has on her. It doesn’t help that this is the first time in weeks that he has given her any attention at all. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it.

But it feels good. It feels _really_ good.

He makes complete eye contact, causing her heart to beat faster.

“Are you uncomfortable, Abigail?”

The question throws her, and she doesn’t know how he wants her to respond. Instead, she just shakes her head.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, sliding his hand onto her knee. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

Her knee feels as if it is on fire, and she can feel every part of his hand burning through her jeans. “I don’t.”

“Because in order to regain the trust that has been broken, you and I have to become a team.”

He slides his hand further, inching higher and higher until it rests on the top of her thigh. She stares at his hand.

“Do you understand, Abigail?”

She nods, and licks her lips. She hasn’t felt this aroused since Tommy Walker took her behind the bleachers during a football game and felt her through her shirt. And even then, she _never_ felt like this.

“Do you trust me, Abigail?” She nods again and he takes his hand away. She stares at him, slightly panicked. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, I trust you.” She is breathless and warm and excited and nervous. Her senses are heightened and her mind is out of control. She can’t think straight, all she can focus on is the placement of his hand.

He rests his hand back on her thigh and she sighs audibly. Instantly, her cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“Show me what you want, Abigail,” he tells her, but his tone is different. It is soft and not as strong as before.

Tentatively, she takes his hand and presses it against the hardness of her jeans, on the sweetest part of her body.

“This,” she whispers, and hopes he knows what she means. Because her head and her body are not cooperating; they are not working in tandem at all.

But this is Hannibal, and Hannibal always knows what people mean. His fingers slide over the waistband, causing her stomach to concave. She is trembling, she realizes, and tries to assume some control. One finger rests on the button of her jeans and he looks at her again, his gaze questioning. She nods once and he plucks the button from the hole and zips the line all the way down.

She is breathing heavily and he hasn’t even touched her yet.

He stops all of his movements, “Stand up.”

She does, and he wraps his hands around the top of her jeans and pulls them all the way down her legs until they reach her ankles. The room feels cold but her body feels hot. She is afraid to look him in the eye, her lack of clothing forcing a blush to spread throughout her cheeks. She feels vulnerable, and doubts his desire for whatever is going to happen next.

“Sit,” he commands softly.

As soon as she is seated again, he bends down and takes off her shoes one by one, yanking her jeans down over her feet afterwards. The floor is hard and his body is so close. He is gentle and delicate with her, as if she is a rare flower in a garden of dandelions. But Abigail can’t think about anything other than his hands and his voice. Her body threatens to tremble again and she takes a deep breath to calm herself.

“Abigail,” he says, this time his tone demanding. “Look at me.”

Her eyes are trained to the floor, her feet firmly planted on the wood. She breathes in again and slowly turns her gaze up to his.

“Good girl,” he rewards, and her heart skips with a twisted sense of pride. “Spread your legs.”

She does, ever so slightly.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he tells her, sensing her insecurity. Once her eyes are locked on his once more, he speaks again. “Wider.”

She does as he says; allowing her legs to drift farther and farther apart until her knee bumps against his and her other almost reaches the end of the chair.

“You see Abigail,” he says slowly, his hand lightly running against the softness of her inner thigh. “Despite what you might believe, you did not lose control when you killed Nicholas Boyle. You gained it.”

His fingers hover over the fabric covering her sweet spot. The anticipation of what is coming overwhelms her, and she looks at him with pleading eyes.

He ignores them, and touches the top of her panties. He lifts the edge with one finger. She looks down to see his motions, but he stops her with his hand. Her chin is in his palm and he is staring at her with eyes similar to melting gold.

“But when you decided to dig up his body in the woods, and expose yourself to danger,” his finger tickles the top of her pelvis. “You lost it.”

He plunges his hand beneath the protection of her panties and glides over her lips and clit with gentle force. She gasps and bites her lip from screaming. Hannibal wouldn’t like it if she screamed, not now. He moves his hand up so his fingers are focused on her clit. He rubs it softly, the pads of his long fingers barely giving her any of the pressure she craves.

“I want to help you get it back.” He says and scoots her closer with his free hand. The movement increases the weight of his hand, and Abigail is fighting to breathe. “Does this feel good, Abigail?”

“Yes,” she says breathlessly and closes her eyes, allowing her head to fall back against the wall.

“Look at me,” he commands again, stopping his movements. Her eyes pop open. “Never lose your focus.”

He resumes rubbing her clit, his pace increasing. The quick movement of his fingers creates wonderful ripples throughout her body. With this speed, she will be finished in only moments. She exhales, her chest heaving up and down, her teeth biting down hard on her lip. Hannibal sees all of this, of course, and slows down his fingers.

Abigail groans. “ _Please_.”

“You may only come when I say,” he tells her, no trace of a smile on his face. His pace increases again and Abigail resists the urge to tilt her head back in delight. She keeps her eyes trained on him.

“Good girl,” he purrs, and the sound of his voice accompanied by his praise causes her to spread her legs wider, and move her hips to his speed.

He slows down again, and she is near tears. She needs this release, needs this release from _him_. Because during that time she spent in his office, that horrible time filled with silence and confusion, she realized exactly what Hannibal is to her. Contrary to what she previously thought, he is not a father figure. He does not fill a paternal role in her life, nor does she want him to.

No, she wants much more from Hannibal.

She wants much more of this.

She is close, _so close_ , with her clit swollen and more sensitive than at the start. Her head is swimming with thoughts and ideas she cannot comprehend, but all she feels is Hannibal. All she sees is Hannibal.

“Are you ready, Abigail?” he asks, and she nods furiously. Her eyes still haven’t left his, and she has done everything in her power not to release before his allowance.

“Yes,” she whispers, and her breath hitches, “I’m so close—“

Before she can finish her sentence, Hannibal has picked up speed again, but this time, his eyes glow with an emotion she does not recognize.

“Come for me, Abigail,” he commands, his voice low. “Come.”

Abigail watches his face as she let’s go. Her body shudders and a huge spasm erupts at her center. She swallows her scream and he wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. He rubs her through the aftershocks and after a few moments she comes down from her high.

“You did very well, Abigail,” she likes that he is saying her name again. She likes that it keeps falling from his lips. He doesn’t waste any time, picking up her jeans from the floor and helping her slip them back on. He does the same with her shoes. Her body feels exhausted but content as she sits back down on the indigo couch.

She doesn’t dislike it as much as she did before.

He returns to his desk, first straightening his red and brown suit and holding back his tie as he sits down. He takes out a pen and a pad of paper, talking all the while. “Come back in two days,” he says, looking her in the eyes, “And we will try something new.”

She nods and stands, the thought of her next appointment fluttering in her stomach. Her legs are slightly unsteady, and her head feels light. Perhaps, if this were any other time, and she hadn’t just orgasmed on his couch, she wouldn’t have said anything. But she did, and so she has to.

She turns around, watching as he writes smoothly on the white pad. “Hannibal,” she begins, and the word feels foreign on her lips. She feels empowered. “Why did you get up so suddenly? And why didn’t you ask for any…” she struggles to find the right word, “reciprocation?”

Abigail is used to debt, and knows she will be paying for her past all her life. But no obligation came with this, no pressure, or quite possibly _desire_ for more. The thought is strangely unnerving to her, and she has to know why.

Hannibal lowers his pen onto the desk slowly, meticulously. His lips curve into a playful smile, and for the first time Abigail is seeing Hannibal from behind the mask.

“Self-control, Abigail. I have spent many years perfecting it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am throwing around some sequel ideas. Would anybody be interested?


End file.
